A/N: eeeeek, hello there. it's been quite a while yes, yes i'm torturing myself with this eren/mikasa/annie terror triangle of angst once again, so pls enjoy! kudos/comments/reivews are a writer's petroleum so y'all are have the power to put the pedal to the metal on this!

MELTDOWN

Chapter I

From afar, she watches them sway. Two heads tucked together, silently exchanging secrets, as that damn Tony Bennett song oozes a thick honey across the floor. Usually steely, forged by his fiery ambition, his eyes tonight carry a look entirely foreign to Mikasa. They've melted. Melted into a softer quality that she has never seen before, uncovering a hidden element of Eren Jaeger.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight," Jean murmurs in her ear. He presses his cheek against hers, squeezing her hand, but she doesn't notice.

Her eyes are fixed on them. Swaying, moving freely, while she's bogged down in the honey, struggling, clawing through the gooey atmosphere, desperate to reach shore. Oxygen. She needs oxygen, but the thickness clogs her windpipe, no matter how much she coughs or chokes. The honey bleeds downwards, drowning her lungs, smothering her aching heart, silencing the message it has pulsed out for years.

"Really, this means the world to me," says Jean.

Turn off the music. Shut that damn thing off and bring her a defibrillator, for the love of God. Shock advised. Bring back the rhythm. Shatter this cold, droning flatline.

But the electricity is gone. That spark has been delivered to a new patient, spurring to life another inert heartbeat.

"Mikasa, there's something that I want to tell you."

Dammit, Eren. Dammit, dammit, dammit—

"Ahah, I'm having trouble expressing myself because I suck at this kinda thing, but—"

But he's attended to another patient, who is safe in his arms, who has her delicate hand on his jawline, who is leaning inwards, towards the guy who saved her, defrosted eyes fluttering closed. She whispers something. Mikasa watches him smile in reply. Those eyes melt even more. His mouth forms vowels and consonants that she can't pick up on from where she is, but fuck, she knows exactly what words and phrases he's forming. He moves towards her, nearer and nearer.

"I'm in love with you."

He leans in. And he kisses her.

Ideally, she shouldn't be this derailed.

Eren has dated other girls before. Not to mention he drunkenly hooked up with several others. She'd a liar to say that these intrigues didn't bother her, but deep down, below the layers discomfort and anxiety, Mikasa knew she didn't have to worry. He always came back to her, often bringing along a season of post-breakup griping. He'd fume. She'd listen. They'd laugh, and all would be good.

But he's never melted this way, and her conscience is screaming, screaming that this time, she won't be hearing a heated tirade about a breakup.

Ripping herself free from Jean's embrace, Mikasa bolts. She shoves her way through the crowd, each individually obnoxiously paired up with another, charging through the ballroom exit, the clacking of her heels echoing through the hallway. She breaks free from the wretched place, gasping once the doors shut with a clunk. Gnawing at her exposed shoulders, a wintry gust ruffles her scarlet dress that brushes against the frozen ground. Her coat and purse are inside, but she has neither the strength nor the will to walk past the floor, risking having to see them together again. Her pearl necklace feels like beads of ice clanging against her skin as she makes her way down the campus path, towards anywhere but here. But not two step forwards, a wave of nausea crashes over her without warning.

Her ankles give out, and she finds herself kneeling, supported by one shaky arm, retching the contents of her pasta dinner into the dead, yellow grass.

"Mikasa!"

She forces herself up and slowly twists around. It's Armin.

Bless him. Spilling out of his arms is her coat, and dangling from his fingers is her purse. He drapes her coat around her and gives her a gentle, "no questions asked" look. Partly because he cares so much, but mostly because there's no need to ask. Those sweeping eyes of his catch everything. Nothing escapes. He sees and processes everything.

"Armin," she blurts out, but he shushes her. His fingers wrap around hers.

"I'm feeling coffee," he states. "How about you?"

It's nearly 11PM.

"I have a handle of vodka in my room," she mumbles weakly, gripping his hand.

For a moment, he is conflicted. She can see the thunderstorm churning in his mind as he debates his choices, weighing his options. But in the end, he shakes his head. "A cup of Earl Grey will do just fine, don't you think?"

Reluctantly, she follows his lead, tottering along winding paths leading to the Bean Bar: the only coffee shop in the state that caters to a college student's sleep schedule. In other words, a place staffed by baristas until 2AM. The door chimes typically tinkle incessantly from frazzled students milling about from dawn to past-dusk, but tonight, the Bean Bar is empty. A half-asleep, zombie-ish Sasha grunts when they enter, dragging herself to the counter.

"You guys look nice," she yawns, "but… shouldn't you be, like, guzzling down alcohol at an after-party?"

"A grande flat white and the hugest cup of English breakfast tea you guys have," Armin answers pleasantly.

They sit at a table, not too close to the windows, nor to the door.

"Talk to me, Mikasa," Armin says. "You got most of it out on the grass, so you might as well finish the job, right?"

She doesn't know where to begin. She can only replay a two-second scene in her head.

"The kiss," she begins dully. What lasted two-seconds felt more like two hours as she stood there, stunned into paralysis.

Sasha arrives with two steaming mugs. "One grande latte and one Earl Grey," she mumbles, stifling a yawn. She sets the latte before Mikasa, the Earl Grey before Armin. She shoves her hand into her green barista's apron, producing a wad of napkins and two forks, and drops the fistful of items onto the table.

"Thanks," Armin calls, subtly switching the drinks as Sasha lumbers back to her napping spot behind the counter. After four years here, they know the Braus version of the menu down-pat. Armin takes a sip of his latte, wincing as he always does with caffeine. "So, the kiss. I didn't realize Jean had it in him, huh?"

"Jean?" she murmurs, dragging a wooden stirring stick through her tea.

"Uh, your date?"

"Ah." She pokes at the teabag, plunging it to the bottom of the mug and allowing it to meekly float back up, only to send it plunging again.

Armin wrinkles his brow. "Oh, Mikasa… don't tell me that you saw…"

"Yep."

The thundercloud has reformed within Armin's skull as he races for the right words of comfort, but she pats his hand twice, accepting it all in defeat. Any other day, she would resist the urge to shove her fist through the other girl's smirking face. Successfully, she has many times suppressed this urge to a low, acrid simmer after pummeling around a punching bag at the gym. But when she saw him melt into that girl, she lowered her guns and dragged her cannons back to where she stormed from.

Armin sighs, kneading his temples. "Well, FYI, in case you weren't aware of it, Jean actually kissed you before you made a beeline for the exit."

"Well, shit. Is that so?"

Entire field of Mikasa's view that was occupied with Jean was still fuzzy in her memory. The only lucid image her mind can conjure is the scene over his shoulder, a sniper's perspective of Eren and her that stood out clear as day, spotlights aimed directly over them.

Although the entirety of Rose University can attest to (at least) one instance of wanting to kick him square in the crotch, Jean is a nice guy at heart. He goes grade-A douche mode to stammering, red-faced, prepubescent boy mode in a blink of an eye whenever he approaches her to make small talk, and in those moments of vulnerable desperation, she sees the true Jean: a horseface who relies on an astronomical ego to solidify an otherwise flimsy sense of purpose.

"I need to apologize to him," she mutters, taking a sip of her tea. "He's a good guy."

"He looked pretty shaken after that," Armin replies, pulling at his bow-tie. Grimacing, he pulls it loose, sighing in relief. "Marco tells me that Jean really, really, really cares about you, but we both know that you've got a lot of other things on your mind."

"Yep. School, grad school, undergraduate degrees, master's degrees, jobs, lives, rent, student loans." She drops a sugar cube into her tea with each list item.

Armin takes the entire sugar cube bowl and dunks it into her mug. "Eren."

"Eren," she echoes in agreement.

"Annie?" he offers.

"Annie," she confirms. She pauses, taking a fork and spearing it into the mountain of sugar that replaced the Earl Grey. "He's in love with her."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Armin asks.

"I heard him say it."

"Um… that might've been Jean, considering the fact that he was millimeters away from you."

"Nope, I saw it all."

He's silent.

She shrugs.

She should probably start crying now, wiping her face with the wad of napkins, diluting her now-sugary tea with her tears. She should probably pounce out of her seat and stomp over to the two lovebirds, who happen to be ambling down the road at the very moment, pausing under the lamppost across the street to exchange a kiss. She should probably swing her fist into Annie's face with all her might, stopping that bitch from following Eren into his building, up the stairs, through his doorway, and under his covers.

But she only watches him, basically a puddle at this point, grin that stupid grin of his, showcasing all of his front teeth, crinkling the corners of his eyes, flashing the grin that she hasn't seen since Carla clutched at her chest and staggered to the ground. Since then, he had been trudging through an ice age.

Until today.

It is the twentieth of March. The vernal equinox.

After Armin walks her back to her dorm and after she promises him that she'll meet him at the Bean Bar for breakfast, she waits exactly ten minutes to pass before heading back outside, hugging her coat tighter around her shivering body. She was never a fan of snap decisions until today. She also never really understood the purpose of vodka until today. A thrill surged through her empty soul, ushering along a swift current in her mind that swept away any anchor of rationality. An idea would drift through, and she'd seize it without a second thought.

"Jean," she says breathlessly, as he opens the door.

This hair, earlier combed and slicked with gel, is a disheveled bird's nest. His shirt has taken on some new wrinkles as well as a stain from some alcoholic drink. He is wearing only one sock.

"Is Connie here?" she asks, glancing into his room for his roommate.

"Mikasa, I'm sorry about… what happened this evening," he says, staring bleakly at the ground. "I… shouldn't have sprung that on you like that—"

"No, I'm sorry, Jean. Thank you."

She pushes him into his own room, shutting the door behind her with a kick from her heeled foot. Hardly registering her own actions, she soon has him pinned to the wall, pressed against her, his stunned face in her hands, her lips over his. He mumbles something, wanting to give pause to the ardent segue, seeking clarity to the situation, but clarity along with truth are the last things on her mind right now. She brushes a finger over his lower lip, gazing into his eyes, silently stating her intentions, and Jean, heartsick and perplexed and eager, complies by wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her closer.

His lips are all over her neck, kissing her wherever he can, hungrily claiming her for himself, and grinding against his groin, she accepts him blindly. Jean's a nice guy at heart. He really is. So why the fuck not?

"The zipper. In the back," she whispers, clawing at his shoulder blades.

"W-wait," he stammers, coming up for a sober breath of air. "Are you sure about this, Mikasa? Shouldn't we talk about… everything before we… you know?"

"I was damn right," she remarks to herself, aloud. "You really are a nice guy."

To answer his question, she pulls him into a gentler kiss. He responds by flipping her around, pulling the zipper down, helping her slip out of the scarlet gown, and leading her towards his small bedroom by the hand, with the grace and respect of a prince. She notices issues of The Wall Street Journal and The Economist sprawled across his desk and dog-eared biographies of several industry tycoons stacked on his nightstand.

"Business major?" she asks.

He laughs uncomfortably. "Uh, same as you, actually. Journalism, specializing in Print Publication. But also doubling in Econ." He pauses for a moment before quickly adding, "But, um, I tend to sit in the back of the lecture halls, so that's why you probably don't see me that often."

Of course she knows that. Well, she should, in a clearer state of mind, at least. Time and again, she's been forced to copy-edit for him on The Daily Rose, which he shamelessly deploys as his personal soapbox for economic policy.

"We print journalists are underrated, aren't we?" Mikasa murmurs, drunkenly drawing circles over his chest with her finger as she stretches back across the mattress.

"Oh, definitely," he replies, leaning over her and slipping his fingers under her bra.

She moans softly as he brushes over her nipple, handling her breast with surprising tenderness for someone reputed to be so coarse and rash. His hands move across her body, exploring the dips and curves of her torso, and she quickly grows accustomed to these unfamiliar hands and this foreign body. Her fingers find their way under his shirt, learning the terrain of his toned abdomen and broad back. That shirt, along with his belt and pants and her bra and underwear, soon form their own puddle on the floor. She gasps as he kisses her breasts, while his hand runs up her thigh, wavering at her entrance, as if seeking permission, which she grants by spreading her legs apart. And clearly, this Jean has had ample experience, rubbing that spot, that sweet spot between her legs, with his expert fingers.

She's soaring, drifting higher and further away from the reality on earth, insulating herself from petty matters, which include that annoying, blockbuster cash-cow mechanism called love. For the first time since meeting him, she has created distance of her own volition, and for once, she feels lifted away from the constant tornado of nagging thoughts that swirl in her head.

He slides a finger into her. She swallows, glancing down at him with a pleading look for more. Her hand roams down his abdomen, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers, reaching for his arousal. He responds by sliding in another finger, smiling when she mouths a 'yes,' eyes closed in pleasure.

"You look beautiful tonight," he tells her, guiding her hand out of his underwear and interlacing his fingers in hers.

If she was just a tinge bit more sober, she would march on out, disgusted that those ingratiating words tainted the atmosphere. She would slapped herself for this, but her mind is still floating amongst the vodka clouds. A blush creeps into her cheeks. She whimpers, clenching the sheets and curling her toes, when his tongue caresses that spot. Against her will, a cry escapes her lips as his fingers move in and out of her, wet with her essence. He builds speed. Her gasps and cries rise in volume.

Her mind yearns for Eren, but her body screams for Jean. Back arching and teeth clenching, her body wins, and she opens her eyes to see Jean, determined to love her, to ravish her. He smiles at her. She reaches the end of her crescendo, letting out a long breath of air as the waves of pleasure pulse across her body.

"Thank you," Mikasa murmurs, sitting up to plant a kiss against his lips.

"My pleasure," he replies.

They lay back on his bed, kissing, entangled in each other's arms. Jean. Eren. Eren. Jean. Both intense, both passionate. Like two sticks of dynamite that should never come within contact of one another, for fear of igniting the entire town. Maybe she was wrong about him all this time, this Jean Kirstein. While emotion pours from him as he touches her, there is something different in his entire approach. A hint of restraint, reining in his eagerness. Unlike Eren, unlike herself, he knows the rules.

"Jean." She says his name quietly, tasting the single syllable, deeming it flavorful.

His eyes meet hers. Right then, a deep pang of guilt, shame, and sadness washes over her, cleansing her muddled mind. Reality, front-and-center, rears its ugly head, announcing over loudspeakers how sheer, unbridled selfishness went into full-bloom tonight. Reality drags her out of the clouds, flings her back to earth, nails her to the scaffold for all to see. Reality summons a one-man jury, who goes by a name shared by both her best friend and her torturer, to determine the final verdict of her actions.

Quickly, she needs to break free from the shackles here on earth. Get the hell away from here. Escape its unjust rules.

"Jean," she says again, almost desperately. She rises to her knees and straddles him, taking both of his hands and bringing them to her breasts. She takes his shaft, feeling his eagerness, thanking him for his restraint, and positions it against her wet entrance.

"Mikasa, are you sure?"

With a sigh, she lowers herself onto him, letting the vodka consume everything rational, everything conventional, and everything right.